“Winners never quit, and quitters never win …”
If I had a dollar for every time my mother said those words to me, I would be sipping wine on my own private island off the Amalfi Coast at this very moment.
When I cried about hating ballet, she squished my feet into those ugly pink flats and made me go to practice anyway. When I told her that I wanted to change my major from Business to “something more creative,” she threatened to stop paying my tuition. And when I told her that I was seconds away from telling my first real boss to go fuck himself, she would only sigh and give me her tried and true words of advice.
She insisted that all my late-night emails were “wasteful whining,” that my screams of hatred were “misplaced admiration,” and that all the times he made me work over a hundred hours in a single week were “much-needed character building.”
After two long years of working for him, I’ve finally accepted that none of those things are true.
Preston Parker is an asshole boss. That is it. End of discussion.
My mother can call me a “quitter” all she wants, but she’ll never know what it’s like to work for a man like him. A man whose ego is bigger than all of New York and Vegas combined.
Yes, he can make any woman wet by uttering a single syllable from his perfectly molded mouth. Yes, his deep emerald and grey eyes are downright breathtaking, and the way he’s able to make any suit look like it was made explicitly for him, never ceases to amaze me.
But I’ve had more than enough.
I can’t take working for him anymore, and I’m finally drafting the two weeks’ notice I should’ve drafted the very first month we worked together. (No, the very first week we worked together.)
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I can’t start this story from the bitter end or the miserable middle. I need to start it from the very unfortunate beginning …
One
Preston
The “very unfortunate” beginning
The best part of my day was always four forty-five in the morning. It was the rare moment when New York City was calm and quiet, when I could take a ride through the streets and admire all the buildings that were lucky enough to bear my last name.
There was the Parker & Rose Collection that owned space on every block of downtown, The Grand Alaskan that hosted top-tier guests in unparalleled privacy, and my favorite hotel of them all. The one that had ousted The Waldorf Astoria from its top spot in luxury hotels for the tenth year in a row: The Grand Rose on Fifth Avenue.
It was my hundredth hotel, my twentieth in this city. It was the very reason why I knew that New York was mine, and it always would be. Every luxury hotel in Manhattan wanted my touch, and the newest listings from Hilton and Marriott were poor imitations. I’d invented the modern twist on the luxury brand. Everyone else was simply borrowing it.
“Your daily papers, sir.” My driver handed them to me as he opened the back door of the town car. “Interesting headlines today.”
“I doubt it.”
I unfolded the stack as he pulled onto the street, groaning as I looked over the bold and black words.
Mister New York—Rumor Report
Preston Parker of Parker Hotels (our very own Mister New York for the eighth year in a row) was caught leaving his penthouse with model Yara Westinghouse. This was days after being seen with Marsha Avery and weeks after being seen with Hanna Bergstrom.
Our reporter stopped him outside of his condo to ask if any of the flings were serious, and he responded with a “Get the fuck off my property.”
As always, we doubt the man will ever settle down with one woman, but he does make our annual October cover look stunning.
Ruthless CEO, Preston Parker, Buys Sonoma Hotel Chain, Fires Top Management
Arrogant and ruthless hotel mogul, Preston Parker, has made his most heartless move yet. Once again, he courted a hotel chain for months—pretending as if there would be a genuine brand merger, but he has (not so shockingly) fired all of the current employees. The Parker Hotel International Press team has revealed that the Sonoma Hotels will soon be luxury hotels.
Mister New York, Preston Parker, Fathers a Secret Child
A mystery woman who claims to have had a one-night stand with Preston Parker is insisting that her two-week-old daughter is his. She’s seeking five hundred thousand a month in child support and is insisting that he pay her hospital bills.
* * *
What the fuck?
I tossed the last paper to the side and focused on the other two, shaking my head at every unverified word. The utter laziness in the headlines was beginning to irk me to my core.
Reporters these days were willing to write anything to sell their papers, and they had yet to send me a check for all the copies I sold for them.
In the past, I was beyond ruthless—gutting hotels for the sake of making sure they never competed with my own and buying properties to make sure no one else would, but those days were long gone. Being at the top of my industry for over a decade meant I didn’t have to be as merciless, and it also meant I didn’t have much to celebrate.
The endless parties on my yachts, the over the top parties on my rooftops had lost their appeal over the years, and the only reason I continued to be seen with supermodels was to distract the media from whatever business deal I was sealing behind the scenes.
If they cared to look a bit closer, they’d see that everything in my life was now a permanent stage of déjà vu, so much so, that I could predict all the conversations I had with people and nothing surprised me anymore. I kept to myself, never made friends, and kept tabs on all my enemies.
Since my relationship with my family was nonexistent, I buried myself in work and expected everyone around me to do the same. If I was capable of working a minimum of one hundred hours a week, they were capable as well. If I didn’t need to sleep, they didn’t need to either.
When I finally arrived at my headquarters, I took a second to admire the silver and grey “P” that was engraved in the center of the marble lobby. I waited to see if my executive assistant would meet me with the required morning reports and my favorite coffee, but three minutes passed, and nothing came.
Of course …
Annoyed, I took the elevator up to my office and was immediately greeted by the floor’s lead receptionist, Cynthia.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker!” She was always too perky for the morning hours. “How are you today?”
“The same as I was yesterday. Do I have any calls waiting?”
She didn’t answer. She just smiled and stared at me, batting her big brown eyes every few seconds.
“Do I have any calls waiting?” I repeated. “Any new files to sign off for morning delivery?”
She still didn’t answer.
“Is there any particular reason why you’re staring at me like that instead of answering my questions?”
“I’ll reply to your questions when you reply to mine.” She lowered her voice. “I texted your personal phone last night. Why didn’t you answer?”
“Because I blocked your number three weeks ago.”